Tight Quarters

Flash Fiction: Tight Quarters

Brigit Rose scowled. Cold grey skies and a brisk wind greeted her on deck. She pulled her scarf tighter and watched the shoreline draw near. She was happy to disembark from this sinking metal can after spending a week cooped up with strangers. Deep down, she cursed Peter Jones for dying and leaving her the assignment of capturing the last voyage of this epic submarine. Military affairs were not her thing. But the news waited for no one, not even for the dead to be buried.

"Miss Rose," came a voice from behind.

She turned and found Captain Barrow staring at her. His immature face told her he was younger than the sub he commanded. "Captain."

"I'd like to thank you for being here to write this story." He grinned. "It's been a real pleasure meeting you."

Conjuring her fake smile, she reached out to shake his hand. "It's my pleasure. I wouldn't have missed it. This is a magnificent vessel."

His face brightened and his cheeks warmed with blush. "It is an honour to be its last captain. I'm so glad you can appreciate its superb design even though in many circles, it's considered a relic."

"They don't build ships like this anymore." And thank God they don't, she thought. Tight quarters, archaic washroom facilities and dull colours that would make a sane person commit murder.

The crew stood topside, like statues lining a graveyard, and waited as the vessel came dockside. A few reporters, including the photographer with her magazine, took photographs to preserve the historic moment.

Brigit's eyes glazed over as she waited for the hoopla to end. Moments later, she was on solid ground. The fresh air smelt fresher on dry land, and her nerves settled for the first time in seven days. She wasn't claustrophobic, but being under water in a sealed can was too much for her. She needed to find open spaces to release the tension. She rubbed her neck as she flagged a cab. In the morning, she'd leave Amsterdam and go into the country where she'd spend a week strolling wooded paths and writing the article her editor had begged her to write.

A cab stopped, she slid inside and rested her head against the back seat. "Grand Hotel," she said without looking at the driver. Before long, she was walking into the fabulous hotel, one her friends had recommended. After checking in, she noticed a deluxe ice cream stand. It was her only addiction, and after suffering without it for more than a week, she indulged.

Licking two scoops of chocolate supreme, Brigit stepped into the elevator. Two woman in ultra-modern dresses stepped inside with her. As the doors closed, their perfume overwhelmed her and overtook the taste of the ice cream. She turned away but could not avoid the odour. She held her breath and watched the floor numbers click by. Her room was on the fifth floor. With any luck, they were on the second. The lift passed the second and headed for the third, then the fourth.

A loud thump followed by silence made Brigit freeze. Why wasn't the elevator moving?

"This is the second time this week," cried one of the women.

"Second time?" asked her friend.

"Yeah. The last time it took them three hours to get me out."

Brigit gulped and her heart fluttered.

The End.